


Arcane Dread

by BadonKaDank



Category: Guardians of Childhood - William Joyce, Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Fearlings, Gen, I don't know what else to tag, I'm tired, Nostalgia induced stuff, Pitch is conflicted, character exploration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-23
Updated: 2017-02-23
Packaged: 2018-09-26 13:04:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9898289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BadonKaDank/pseuds/BadonKaDank
Summary: A run in with a few of the Guardians creates inner discourse and Pitch takes a moment to remember his roots.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I got hit with a ton of nostalgia. That's all I can really say for this...

Fear.

Most people saw it as a bad thing- an emotion felt only by spineless cowards or children who didn't know better. It was a tool which parents used to control those children, even as they themselves looked down upon it and tried to shove it back into their closets. It was a commonly felt thing that nobody was fond of discussing or acknowledging, yet something everyone in the world experienced on a daily basis.

Why most treated fear as a terrible problem meant to be hidden away and never spoken of was a mystery to him. Even he had been afraid on more than one occasion and hadn't understood what the fuss was about. Yes, being in the grips of it was an experience unlike any other -the racing heart, the cold sweat, the realization that any moment something horrible could happen- but he'd never found it to be an altogether unpleasant experience. But then, perhaps that could be attributed to what he was; most creatures, human, animal and spirit alike, didn't rely on various forms of distress to sate them.

In addition to that, not all fear was bad. When a young woman goes walking around after dark downtown, that uneasy feeling in the back of her head that has her continually looking over her shoulder until she gets home safely, while not quite mortal terror, still was helpful. What would happen to one of those girls if they felt completely at ease, despite the potential for danger all around them? Or when a child thought running away from home because a parent was being unfair was a good idea, only to realize the moment they stepped out of the house that they could be hurt or kidnapped or chased down by the police and brought back home to upset parents. What stopped them from running off if fear was never present?

Of course, he was the only one who would ever understand that, and the knowledge irked him while allowing bitterness to consume him. Not every feeling protected in children could be positive, and that wasn't a terrible thing. Somehow only he could see that, though, because even when he kept to himself, tried to do the bare minimum of his _job_ , there the Guardians were, kicking him down and destroying everything he worked so carefully to watch over. Any time anyone came close to believing in him, they were there to ensure their temporary comforts and light outshone his realistic installments of fear.

Had it really struck them as such a shock when he'd tried to drown the world in his horror and darkness?

The need to terrify and terrorize was something that had been a part of him from the moment of his creation. If he never frightened anyone, or at the very least fed off any already existing fear, then he was nothing. He scared, therefore he was. It had been that way since the beginning of time, and would remain that way until the end. Yes, oftentimes he allowed that hunger for the power mortals' fear provided him to take control until he'd gone too far, but he always regained his senses eventually. Whether that was through his own ability to wrench himself back from that desire or by someone beating sense back into him didn't matter.

And honestly, in the grand scheme, was a battle once every couple of centuries really that difficult for the Guardians? It wasn't like he pulled them from anything crucially important; Nicholas and Bunnymund dealt with huge events once every three hundred and sixty-five days, and even if Sandman and Toothiana were continually busy, their jobs couldn't compare to what he did.

Even when they didn't believe in him, give him power, he still felt every fear that ever went through a person, child, teenager, and adult alike. A billion voices constantly spinning around to join the tempest of ones already inside his own head, a billion _more_ things he had to surround himself with and separate from in order to keep his wits about him. Fear may have been delicious, but only the specific kinds brought on by his creation or presence truly made him feel like the king of nightmares he was. Otherwise they became tedious. It was true that occasionally he'd pick up something that made his face split into a sharp grin, but other than that, he could only find it in himself to appreciate the fears for the sole reason that they kept him around.

What he'd told the Guardians was accurate, there _would_ always be fear, and that fear would always be beneficial, but it wouldn't always be fun. There were particular fears that rankled with him: The fear of rejection by a loved one, the usual phobias such as heights or spiders or the ocean, etcetera. They were fears he could prey on, sure, but after so many millennia of being around, they were predictable, and, therefore, uninteresting. They brought the sort of excitement that was on par with finding a rusted penny in the streets as an adult.

No, the fear he truly craved was the kind that was pure and untainted, the kind only children who still believed in monsters under the bed could provide. Which made life all the more inconvenient for him, because any attempts at getting it recently had been monitored closely by his enemies and their little spies. Actually, nearly every move he made had been reported back to them the moment he'd resurfaced several years after the… Burgess incident. He'd licked his wounds clean, gotten his nightmares and inner darkness under his control once more, and come back to ensure the sparks of particular fear that kept him going properly remained in the world. He'd been laying low, naturally, but after several months of slow work, he'd grown tired of hiding and had returned to the world and the Guardians' radars.

It was tedious, having them interrupting his moments of relative peace on the job when they happened to pass by, but it was something he'd had to deal with every time he first came back out. They'd ease up eventually, when they'd comforted themselves with the realization that he had no current plans to wipe them out, but for the time being he knew he'd have to endure it.

Honestly, he would have taken longer in hiding if it hadn't been for the newest addition to their little club; with Frost on their team, those two-faced do-gooders had seemed to feel the need to rein their more violent, vengeful tendencies in. Why? He hadn't a clue, since it was not as if Jack was sheltered from those sorts of behaviors, but then, thinking back to how the young spirit had looked when Toothiana had struck him in his position of vulnerability, perhaps he hadn't expected those sorts of actions from a group like the Guardians. And of course, being all about face, they'd wanted their newest member to trust and feel safe around them.

He would have ridiculed them for that, but then, he too had tried charming Jack, getting him to ignore the less savory aspects of his personality and motives in order to get the winter spirit on his side. But, then, that had failed. It seemed every area he tried to mimic the Guardians he fell flat on his face. That was partially due to the fact that he wasn't made up of the same things they were, surely, but it almost seemed rather unfair, that they were able to achieve more than he while acting in similar ways, albeit with nicer attitudes and softer expressions.

But then, when had it ever mattered, what he perceived as unfair?

Sometimes one just had to stick to what they knew and not bother using other people's tactics, no matter how effective they seemed. If one system worked, even if less successfully, what was the use in discarding it? For millenias he'd used the same formulas to gain results, and even if turning dreams to nightmares had been a stroke of genius that served a faster alternative to grow in popularity among the younger populous, there were other ways to get there. Slower, but harder to detect, and for the time being, that was what he wanted.

Besides, while nightmares were fun, there was something to be said for the rewarding feeling that praying on primal fears provided- something about being able to protect the source of his power and terrify it at the same time never failed to send shivers of cold delight down his spine. Which was why when he came across a child no older than nine playing on some train tracks after dusk in the small town he'd been prowling around, Pitch grinned that toothy grin that served to unnerve most and stepped out of the shadows.

The child couldn't see him, of course, but after so many years, he had learned various tricks to get around that hitch. It was easiest to pull of with anxious teens or superstitious adults, but there were ways to get to the little ones, and situations such as these were well suited for the method. After all, around this age, children became more and more aware of their surroundings and the dangers they produced. Plus, this one in particular was already wondering what his parents might have been thinking about his being home late.

Pitch pounced on that with vigor, coming to stand beside the boy and lean down to where his lips would have been brushing against his ear.

" _What if your parents are worried about you."_

Watching the boy's face scrunch up as the thought took hold and being able to count down exactly how long it would take the worry to seep in was absolutely delicious and Pitch inhaled slowly, savoring the moment.

" _They probably are. They're probably so very worried. Maybe they're looking for you right now. But they won't know where you are, because they don't know you play back here."_

That last part was a hunch, of course, but he was rarely wrong, and when the child wrapped his arms around himself as if suddenly growing cold, Pitch knew he'd made the correct assumption. Good, now it was time to throw a little childish mortal terror for good measure, just to really get things headed in the right direction.

" _And what if you get caught in the tracks and a train gets you? What if something happens to you right now? What if mommy and daddy never ever find you? You'd better get home."_

The boy shuddered with his whole body and Pitch snickered when a wave of pure untainted fear wafted off the child just before he took off running. There. He got a little something and now the child would be getting home to his family without harm.

Unfortunately he only got to enjoy the moment for half a second before he was ducking to avoid a blast of ice magic, which had been aimed directly at his face. Oh great. He'd sort of been hoping to avoid this tonight, even if Frost was the least irritating to deal with, and even one of the more understanding of the Guardians.

" _Pitch!_ Just what do you think you're doing?"

That high pitched voice did not belong to Jack, but he sadly still recognized it and the man inwardly hissed.

"Ah, yes, of course you'd be here." Pitch turned to level the two beings with a flat glare. "I must say, two Guardians in one day _is_ impressive. To what do I owe the honor?"

"We were in the neighborhood," Jack answered easily enough, leaning against his staff as he landed several feet from him.

"Were you now?" Pitch knew he could disappear into the darkness whenever he so wished, but so long as nobody was trying to assault him, there was no harm in chatting. He would be lying if he said he never found the banter he could have with Frost entertaining.

"Yyyyup," Jack nodded in Toothiana's direction, "I've gotta bring some winter up here and she's doing some field runs."

"Jack," Toothiana warned. Whether she thought she was being subtle or not remained to be seen, but for the time being, Pitch would ignore it. He wasn't about to make any attempts at getting to know the other four and why or why not they didn't want their newest member sharing details of their work. Jack he could tolerate, everyone else could fall off the face of the earth and he would be hard-pressed to notice.

She cleared her throat and crossed her arms over her multicolored chest, turning her nose up at him. "But yes, that is why I'm here. And Joseph, the boy you just scared off -not that you care- was scheduled to lose a tooth a few seconds ago."

"Maybe he already has," he intoned, half tempted to examine his nails just to show how uninterested he'd already become with the conversation. "He was running rather quickly- there's plenty of opportunity to lose a couple right there. You should get on that."

"What did you do to him?" Toothiana accused, glaring harshly.

Pitch rolled his eyes and matched her pose, folding his arms while raising a brow at her. "What makes you think I did anything at all?"

"Please, Pitch, you're always up to something," she claimed, her wings doing a double beat in frustration.

"Piss off," he snapped, apparently surprising Jack a little because the boy thinned his lips to keep from snorting even as his eyes grew wide and he watched the fairy for a reaction. He continued before she could say anything, "Despite you Guardians' firm beliefs, I am not _always_ being the bad guy."

She barked a laugh, though there was no humor behind it. "I find that hard to believe. We both know darkness is all that runs through you, Pitch; you can't help but be the bad guy."

Protest rose up in his throat and Pitch stomped it down harshly. Not only would he not grace her with a proper response, but he owed nobody an explanation for the way he acted, _especially_ not her. She knew nothing of the darkness that ran through him. Nobody did, not since they'd dealt with that meddlesome glowing child from a lifetime ago.

"Fairy, do _not_ profess to understand matters you know nothing of." It was a warning, and the others knew it. He'd made no attempt to mask the venom lacing the words, nor did he care how they were taken. The fact that she'd had the audacity to bring that up made the voices inside scream at him to end her right then and there, even while the dominant part of him remained aware that any attempt to do so would end in failure.

He assumed that would be the end of the conversation, but as soon as he turned to leave, Toothiana's words struck him hard between his shoulderblades.

"I know plenty, _Pitchiner._ "

Pitchiner. The familiarity of the name brought an unidentifiable weight down upon him and Pitch did his best to hide the way his breath halted in his chest. He could hear Frost questioning the fairy about the name she'd used, but the man heard none of it for the voices now roared in displeasure. On occasion he'd had to deal with their upset, but never in his memory could he recall them being so loud, so angry, and the Nightmare King clenched his eyes shut, trying in vain to calm them.

Instead, he caught the hint of new voices in the mass of screaming, writhing black. No… not new, old. Familiar.

_Pitchiner, what must we do?_

_Follow after them! Me mustn't let them escape._

_Yes, sir._

Pitch pressed a palm against his temple and hissed under his breath. "What in the hells," he growled softly.

"Pitch? You alright?"

Oh right, Frost. Toothiana. They couldn't allow the two to see them like this. Shaking their head in frustration, they melted into the shadows, ignoring the Guardians' shouts to come back. The darkness enveloped them like an old friend, soothing some of the mass and allowing him to at least get his wits about him so he could navigate through the black and end up in - _their lair_ \- his home.

The shadows in every corner of the palace twisted and shrieked at him, daring him to let those voices speak another time. It left Pitch with a pounding in his head he hadn't experienced since his own nightmares had come after him several years back, when he'd allowed his own fears to drown him. Why they turned on him now was a mystery to him when it had been the fairy who'd brought _him_ up in the first place. If anything, they should've been keen on attacking her for daring to mention that pathetic wreck.

Honestly, if she wanted to pretend she knew anything, she should have gone with the fact that it was his fault they'd been brought back into power. If he hadn't been so weak, so eager to escape the hell they shared, there would _be_ no Nightmare King, no "bad guy" to begin with. But then, if he'd never existed, who would be there to protect everyone from themselves? Who would nurture the paranoia and apprehension that saved thousands -if not millions- of humans daily if not him?

Everyone saw him as the villain, no matter what he did, and nothing ever seemed to change that.

Yet even those thoughts, that knowledge that typically calmed whomever was upset, didn't halt the mounting pressure in his skull- that sensation of being clawed at from the inside, as if something was scrambling to be let out. And perhaps it was. On occasion the one or two Fearling would try something, and it would be his job to squash it and put it back in its place. The damn things needed to be commanded or else they were little more than nasty little nuisances.

This one felt different somehow, though, somehow simultaneously stronger and weaker than the usual rebellious wisp of darkness. And it sounded different too. Even when he couldn't make out what it was saying, so drowned out by the others, Pitch could tell that much.

He groaned in his failing attempts to quash the noises only he could hear and transported himself into his chambers. There was every chance he could sleep and wake with the voice quieted, but Pitch couldn't see rest coming to him easily. It hadn't for some time and there was no reason to expect that to change simply because he wished it to.

Instead, Pitch found himself wandering into the lighter area of the room, a place he hadn't seen in centuries. They'd made sure it was bright enough that he would be less likely to go near, that he'd be less interested, of that he was aware, but even so, didn't stop him from visiting on occasion. For some reason, they'd let him keep select few trinkets from the Dark Ages, and even if he didn't remember the complete meaning behind all of them, they sometimes helped to quell the raging inside him at times when sleeping was of no aid.

Blackened fingertips brushed over navy-black fabrics that were somehow still so soft and metals that still glowed faint starlight despite the wear of the ages. The light burned fiercely and they wanted to withdraw their hand but he didn't allow them to do so. Instead Pitch marveled at the way the glowing white licked at discoloration of his nails until they turned a foreign pale and his fingers began going a milky color. It was fascinating, how natural the coloring looked. He thought he partially understood why that was, but nothing came to mind.

_-Daddy, do you really have to go again?_

_I'm afraid so, Love._

_I don't want you to._

_I'll be back soon._

_Promise?_

_On my soul._

It was then that the pain registered with him and the Nightmare King ripped his hand away with a hissing gasp, holding it to his chest until the familiar gray and black returned to the appendage and the small echoing of voices were silenced.

They hadn't seen anything like that since his locket and Pitch glared at the uniform as if it had personally offended him. They thought maybe it would be best to destroy it but he shook his head to dispel the thought. No, throwing one of his only ties to the glorious Dark Ages out for the sole reason that it made them uncomfortable was not enough reason for him to get behind the idea. It did give him pause though.

_Pitchiner._

He knew who that was, and his entire being cringed at the thought of him, even while not being able to remember every detail as to why that was. It was as if, while still aware of what they'd started as, they'd forgotten -or perhaps buried- their original self, until he was a faded piece that didn't register as more than a burning in the back of their minds. They had a new form now. Long gone was the true meaning behind the uniform and locket and moral compass pointing to a sense of loyalty for someone and something other than himself. It had taken centuries to get him like that, and one voice in the sea of many was not enough to get through to him, no matter how hard he tried. Centuries had gone into making Pitch who he was, and they weren't about to let that be destroyed.

The one voice though, the softer, lighter one that didn't belong, gave him pause. He both did and didn't recognize it, as if from a dream- or rather, nightmare, since he couldn't remember the last time he'd properly dreamt. But that wasn't it and Pitch knew it. Just like he knew he knew Pitchiner, even if he hadn't a clue why, when he'd supposedly been crushed and thrown out forever.

_He's you. Always you, always there._ A few of the the hissing, snickering ones working to drown out the original softer voices, offered him that, and while interested in what they said, Pitch slapped them back. They may have had weighted truth to what they spoke of, but they may not have, and there was clear-cut malicious intent behind their words.

It wasn't often that the Fearlings tried to pull control back from him, but on the rare day a few of the snippier, braver ones would make an attempt at it and he had to ensure they didn't do it again for some time. Oftentimes it was difficult to tell certain ones apart from the rest of the mass, but after so many years of solitude, Pitch had managed it more or less, at least enough to know which ones could be trusted and which had to be approached with caution.

Although the comment did latch onto his mind to the point he couldn't shake it no matter what he did, he didn't want to acknowledge the possibility of that being truthful because it gave those Fearlings a stronger hold in him. But the words had sunk their teeth into him. It made sense. Why else would he have kept the uniform from a time long dead and a locket of a girl long lost, when everything else in his being revolted against the possession of such items?

Even that hesitant thought had the roaring in his head growing louder until Pitch stumbled back and felt his back meet a stone wall. They were _not_ Pitchiner. That man was made of _light_ and _gold_ , was _pure_ and _loyal_ , was not them- not _him_. Would _never_ be him.

They'd destroyed that man, torn him to shreds inside and out until what was left was their creation, their Pitch Black. Yes, he may still have had Pitchiner's things, but he was _not him_. They'd gotten rid of him, more or less permanently, and he would never be coming back, no matter how hard he fought to claw his way to the surface.

Yes, he remembered Pitchiner, maybe even thought of him from time to time despite the protesting the Fearlings did, but that did not matter. He was Pitch Black, King of Nightmares and Ruler of Fears, not some long forgotten, long dead general of a ridiculous army, fighting for an even more ludicrous cause. No matter what anyone thought, there was not a single shred of good like that inside him. He may not always be trying to play the villain, but Toothiana's words had held some truth to them: Darkness was all that ran through his veins.

However, what he chose to do with that darkness was entirely up to him.

Part of him wanted to go back to that little town the two Guardians were in, to perhaps continue the banter so they didn't think they'd won, but the other part told him, rather vehemently, to stay away from them- that he could not keep fraternizing with the chosen people of the Lunanoff boy. Pitch begrudgingly agreed with them for the time being. It was true, darkness needed to stay away from light, lest it get too close and like Icarus, be burned. There would come a time when interacting with the Guardians became necessary again, but that wouldn't be for some time. They'd be needing to come up with a suitable plan against them again before the taunting could begin.

So, avoiding the Guardians, he returned to the town, creeping into the house of Joseph, confident that the fairy had already come and gone, completing her task. He didn't worry himself too much with her, however. It was time to get to work.

Yes, a day would come when everyone would be reminded that in their world, there were no heroes like Kozmotis Pitchiner, or Guardians, or a Man in the Moon, but it would not be any time soon. Not that that mattered; he had an eternity.

For the time being, though, as he stepped out of the child's closet, all teeth and glowing gold eyes in the night, and a high-pitched scream tore through the air, Pitch was content with doing what he did best.

Fear.

**Author's Note:**

> Still haven't read most of the GoC series, but this popped up in my head and wouldn't go away. I have many different takes on how Pitch/Fearlings/Koz things work, but ran with this first.


End file.
